Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville (I've not forgotten, near the town)
I've not forgotten, near to the town,
our white house, small but alone:
its Pomona of plaster, its Venus of old
hiding nude limbs in the meagre grove,
and the sun, superb, at evening, streaming,
behind the glass, where its sheaves were bursting,
a huge eye in a curious heaven, present
to gaze at our meal, lengthy and silent,
spreading its beautiful candle glimmer
on the frugal cloth and the rough curtain.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Beautiful White Candle (Symbol Of Heaven)
When I light this white candle
to say my bed time prayer,
It shimmers beautifully,
Filling the room with love,
Shines through the darkness,
spreading comfort all around
my room,
I feel peace and love,
I feel protected and safe,
Knowing this beautiful
candle will shield me,
Chase away the darkness,
Surround me with heavens light,
Chase away those dark shadows,
As I say my prayer I hear
angels singing,
Spreading all the glory,
I feel no more fear,
knowing that they hear my
every thought and every prayer,
Even my every wish is heard,
It is a symbol of heaven,
A telephone call to heaven,
I know that they are always near,
Listening carefully to every word,
Singing to me cheerfully to say
For they are here and everything
will be safe,
Knowing heaven will always be right by
my side,
Watching, listening and waiting
for me to light this beautiful white
candle,
When I say another prayer.
poem by Derek James
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Gestures
A killer moon
blinks
in a mating dance.
Smothered by kisses
frugal night
seethes with anger.
In synchronized,
house of limbs -;
the pink underside.
Fireflies
lost the way
between light and dark.
Of sunflowers
and a nude
lies a tale.
poem by Satish Verma
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Small Town
Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probly die in a small town
Oh, those small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity
Educated in a small town
Taught the fear of jesus in a small town
Used to daydream in that small town
Another boring romantic thats me
But Ive seen it all in a small town
Had myself a ball in a small town
Married an l.a. doll and brought her to this small town
Now shes small town just like me
No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be
Got nothing against a big town
Still hayseed enough to say
Look whos in the big town
But my bed is in a small town
Oh, and thats good enough for me
Well I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in this small town
And thats probly where theyll bury me
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Idea Of A Hiding Place
away from you, i have already in my mind
what my hiding place will be.
i know what i want. just a single room. not a bed for two.
just a glass of water. no wine to make me drunk.
just a single chair. nothing for two butts.
just a small house where i can put my small mind.
i like a leak on the roof.
you know what i want to see.
just a single star. distant and soundless.
so beautiful
as silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Empty Chairs
A large willow tree
Still budding
With small leaves
Taking in warmth
and the suns rays
Set back from the
Well traveled street
Narrow lane
leading to
A enchanted white house
Generously shaded
By that starting
Willow tree
Away from it all
Noise and fury
A table mostly white
Its age is shown
By the bleeding rust
Its companions
Too similar chairs
The severity of winter
has left its punishing touch
Their forms
rugged and sound
Years of resting
On that paved brick ground
On the top
A cloth
Of colors
Filled with streaking
Lavander, Crimson and white
On that cloth
For my thirst
A glass dew dripped,
Filled with ice and lemonade
In this beauty
there I sit
With an empty seat
Enjoying the gentleness
Of this place.
poem by Howard Johnson
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Life Is Beautiful
Soaking my feet in Rose petal
Listening to the rain fall down
A chilled glass of White wine
Tonight We'll paint the town
Life Is Beautiful
Rest by the roaring warm fire
The scent of Jasmine in the air
Sharing sweet little treats
Your love is beyond compare
Life Is Beautiful
Take dinner by candle light
The music is soft as your kiss
You reach and take my hand
A sweet touch of your lips
Life Is Beautiful
poem by Suelynn Walters
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Women's song of the corn
How beautiful are the corn rows,
Stretching to the morning sun,
Stretching to the evening sun.
Very beautiful, the long rows of corn.
How beautiful is the white corn,
I husk it,
I grind it.
Very beautiful, my white corn.
How beautiful is the red corn,
I gather it and make fine meal,
I am glad doing this.
Very beautiful, my red corn.
How beautiful is the black corn,
I give it to my father,
To my mother,
I give it to my child.
Very beautiful, the black corn.
How beautiful is the mottled corn,
Like the sky with little clouds,
I eat it looking at the sky.
Very beautiful, my mottled corn.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Rubens' Hell
VENUS with rosy-cloven rump
And rings of straw-bright flying hair
Looks in the glass that slaves are plying
Not for her own face floating there,
But for the sly and curious gaze
Of Rubens, through the keyhole prying.
Warm flesh of gods, by light embayed,
And drifting daemon-bones within
That sweep like music up and down
To pouts and cups of ivory skin,
Firm-valleyed croup, and swagging arm
In whose embankment bracelets drown—
Do you remain, you strokes of paint,
With Venus mocked and Rubens dead
And Beauty sold for an antique
And microscopes raised up instead?
Still are your old adherents true;
Rubens is there, if he could speak.
Rubens is there in your high room,
Rubens it is who blows his breath
To fix you laughing in the glass,
Who keeps a castle here from death
While schools go out and fashions fall
And microscopes and movements pass.
This castle-keep of joys conceived
But never sucked is Rubens' hell,
Is Rubens' limbo, cut and won
From darkness. Here he comes to dwell.
Man's heaven is the place he builds
By thoughts imagined and things done.
Some choose a paradise of gas,
And some, by pious deeds below,
The heavenly butter-hatch for flunkeys;
Who dream of nought to nothing go.
Therefore I'd sooner Rubens' hell
Than go to heaven with the donkeys.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Behind That Curtain
Let me show and tell you my people,
Behind that curtain,
where all the cooking can be attained,
that, all suprises are drowned,
yap'that, where our eyes directed.
Behind that curtain,
decorated with a colourful carpet,
with a big secret underneath,
yeah! that where every eye digging into it.
Behind that curtain,
sorroundedby curious walls,
walls with beautiful dolls,
yap! that every finger would like to touch.
Behind that curtain,
where all decisions are made,
decisions of power and trade,
that may stand years and decades.
Behind that curtain,
drafted with Tanzanite colour,
that may stand for years not hours,
yes, where every heart would like to mingle in.
Behind that curtain,
where I hear a smell,
something like a rotten hell,
yes, that every fly would be pleased to kiss.
that is where you belong and it is yiur home.
poem by Dickson Mseti
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Rough God Goes Riding
Oh the mud splattered victims
Have to pay out all along the ancient highway
Torn between half truth and victimisation
Fighting back with counter attacks
Its when that rough God goes riding
When the rough God goes gliding
And then rough God goes riding
Riding on in
I was flabbergasted by the headlines
People in glasshouses throwing stones
Gaping wounds that will never heal
Now theyre moaning like a dog in a manger
Its when that rough God goes riding
And then the rough God goes gliding
Therell be nobody hiding
When that rough God comes riding on in
And its a matter of survival
When youre born with your back against the wall
Wont somebody hand me a bible
Wont you give me that number to call
When that rough God goed riding
And then that rough God goes gliding
Theyll be nobody hiding
When that rough God goes riding on in
Riding on in
When that rough God goed riding
When that rough God goes gliding
Therell be nobody hiding
When that rough God goes riding on in
Riding on in
Therell be no more heroes
Theyll be reduced to zero
When that rough God goes riding
Riding on in
Riding on in
Riding on in
Riding on in
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beautiful Darling of My Secret Heart
Beautiful darling of my secret heart;
Secret of secrets, held apart-
Under lock and key, a whole world wrought:
Beautiful darling of my secret heart.
Beautiful darling of another place;
There’s secret longing in your silent face-
Half in hiding, like unfinished thought:
Beautiful darling of another place.
Beautiful giver of beautiful songs;
Songs sung in secret, all night long-
A candle'd altar, quiescent flame:
Beautiful darling- I can’t speak your name.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Painter’s Agony
I want to paint that river
And the scene behind it
The boat and the boatmen
I know everything about
That river
My association with the river
Many a hundred memories
Evenings and sunshines
Floods and slow water
I have lived my life
On the bank of that river
I want to paint
Paint it with the most beautiful colors
I want to borrow some colors
From the colors of paradise
And I love the town
That lives beside the river
Old and dusty
Where shall I take you
In that small town
Every nook and corner
Shall tell you that it knows me
I want to paint that town
In colors of heaven
I want to carry a few children
And take them on a tour
I want to see the town with their eyes
And then go to the riverbank
And meditate for a while
Drink the wine of nature
And get lost into the world of beauty
And flow with the river
Enter every house
My heart throbs in harmony
With every heart in the town
Give me colors divine
Colors from the other world
For I want to paint
That river and that town
(This poem is about a small town on the bank of river Indus)
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Citadels Of The Prairies
The citadels of the prairies
stand majestic in the horizon,
their white fingers
beckoning out to heaven,
as they stand silent
for all the world to see.
Some men have climbed them
to get closer to heaven,
others have failed
and their bones lay bleached white
wherever they fell.
The air is cool and crisp
around the citadels
that stretch up to the sky.
They are a home to many creatures
including little birds that fly.
They are at war with no one
as they stand silent and still
fingers beckoning to heaven
as evening begins to chill.
6 August 2008
poem by David Harris
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Just You
there're a few light clouds floating above the sky,
there're a few light breeze blowing on the ground,
oh, who told me not to miss you?
it's just you, only you, who have appeared in my dreams
for many times!
you're the cinderella's cystal shoe, taking it,
the poor ordinary girl can be the brilliant princess suddenly,
you're the yeast for vintage, adding it,
the small and acerb grapes can become a glass of superb red wine/nectar amazingly.
you have the magic of turning the ugly duck into a beautiful white swan,
you're like the spring wind only for whom the flowers come into blossom.
Baby, I Love You
Broken glass littered the floor
I stared at the maroon pool
Glass boats floating about
Numb
For once
I didn’t feel the pain
The pain of losing you
The pain of ending you
The pain of breaking you
The pain of loneliness
A slight blur settled
Among my thoughts
The pretty glass boats
Fascinate me
Baby, I don’t know how
I don’t know why
But somehow
I don’t need you
I want you
You’re a forgotten letter
And just before
The curtain closes
The darkness settles
Your beautiful eyes
Remind me
I can’t escape the pain
It’s always there
And one more thing-
Baby, I love you
poem by Jennifer Sollmann
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Transformation Scene
A plain building was removed to a pleasant grove, and in a
few weeks it was transformed into the neatest frame
building in town.
As westward we of late did rove
We beheld in the maple grove
An old church now owned by Peter ;
In town there is no house looks neater,
For those bay windows do look sweeter
Than anything in prose or meter.
poem by James McIntyre
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Song: The House of Cards
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
and admire it's lavish facades.
The hearth's as transparent,
as the heart of young Faust,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the balcony suite, where all powers meet;
as made men they're known as goodfellas.
See the play of elites, who admit no defeats,
but display their true corporate colours.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
lest like glass it shatters to shards.
When you hold up a mirror,
they scatter like grouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like fat cats in heat, or on hunting retreat,
at ranches, estates, gated villas.
All pall-bearers beat or quail at their feet,
as befits these natural born killers.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
protected by cameras and guards.
No-one 'scapes notice,
not even a mouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the mezzanine floor, they scrabble and squall,
to preen their fine hubris, unscissored.
And in congress they roar, they babble and bawl,
their small-minded rubrics like wizards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
the home of the brazen canards.
The cowboy and spouse,
in faux denim strauss,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like insects they swarm, as a cold war gets warm,
or pick at the dead flesh like buzzards.
As the press runs to form, in the frat house and dorm,
and hazes the public as dullards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
once praised by the poets and bards.
What pest not oppressed
will soon be deloused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
While the huge hulking mass, of opinion is crass;
as it sits on it's ass to prove,
that the lumpen foundation of once a great nation,
like bedrock is slow to move.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
for the debris is minimally charred.
The walls may be burning,
but soon will be doused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
while the world still gives it's regards.
A dream once espoused,
is now lost, and anonymous,
in the beautiful house of cards.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Daydreaming in the Evening
Where one goes in the evening is not the angel's shadow
And beauty! grief and gentler forgetting alternate;
The stranger's hands grope coolness and cypresses
And his soul is taken by an astonished languishing.
The market is emptied of red fruits and garlands.
Harmoniously the church's blackish pageantry attunes
In a garden the tones of soft play sound,
Where tired ones find each other after the meal.
A carriage rushes, a spring very far away through green puddles.
There a childhood appears dreamlike and elapsed,
Angela's stars, enclosed devoutly to a mystical constellation,
And calmly the evening coolness rounds.
White poppy loosens the limbs of the lonely ponderer,
So that he views righteousness and God's deep joy.
From the garden his shadow strays here in white silk
And bends down over mournful waters.
Branches knocked whispering into the abandoned room
And a loving and small evening flowers' tremor.
Corn and golden vines gird the site of man,
A lunar shimmer, however, ponders after the dead.
poem by Georg Trakl
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The Day the Piano Came
His fingers caressed the new, shiny keys, pulling out the strings
of Chopin melodies and chords that tugged at the heart.
We had never heard anything so beautiful as the gentle notes
that rolled into my ears, soft and warm. I shivered
in this warmth. It was too beautiful. This man
was a genius, bringing us this new and beautiful happiness.
That night, while everyone slept, I crept downstairs
and sat at the new piano. The smooth white glistened
under my curious fingertips. They itched to play.
This was a real piano.
I had never seen such an elegantly monstrous instrument,
and it was right here, in my house, under my fingers.
I was wrapped in bliss that night, and in the years
that followed, that silent piano brought me peace.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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I Ask You
What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?
It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside--
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.
But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.
No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect harmony.
So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a pond--
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.
poem by Billy Collins
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